Trust Me
by Verdreht
Summary: I'm Not Okay Something's missing in the bullpen. When Raylan goes to investigate, he learns more about Tim and himself than he'd bargained for: scars, old and new, and feelings he never expected. It's about trust. Raylan/Tim slash
1. Chapter 1

Raylan was a thick-headed son of a bitch.

It had been said on more than one occasion, and by more than one person, but as a general rule, he didn't buy into it much.

Some might consider that case and point.

But really, it wasn't right. He wasn't thick-headed, and he wasn't oblivious. Hell, he liked to think he had a better grasp on what was going on around him than most. He knew when the office switched coffee brands, when the receptionist got a haircut, when Rachel was on her Time of the Month, and when Art was on his.

He wasn't a thick-headed son of a bitch.

Until he was.

Because damn, only one thick-headed son of a bitch could've missed this.

Come Friday evening, Raylan couldn't wait to be home. After that business up in Noble's Holler with Quarrel and Limehouse and the rest of Harlan's crookedest earlier that week, not to mention Tom's funeral, he was ready to retreat to his apartment over the bad and bury himself in the bottom of a bottle 'til Monday rolled around.

It was getting late, and most people had cleared out a couple hours ago. Raylan had been finishing up some paperwork – Art would've been proud, if he hadn't skidaddled as soon as the clock struck five a couple hours ago – but now he'd dotted his last I and crossed his last T, and it was time to head home.

So, with nothing by the skeleton shift to keep him company, Raylan headed for the locker rooms to get his shit before he put the office in his rearview and got started on that long-overdue brush with alcohol poisoning.

Only, he found out when he stepped inside that he wasn't quite as by-his-lonesome as he thought.

Sitting just inside the locker rooms was U.S. Marshal Deputy Tim Gutterson, his locker door hanging wide open and his attention set on the bottle of pills he was shaking into his hand.

"Good thing random drug checks were last week, huh?" Raylan said as he walked inside.

Tim knocked back the pills in one fell swoop and then raised his head to track Raylan over to the opposite bench. "It's ibuprofen," he said, his voice just a little thicker of a mutter than usual. "Ain't no one ever got in trouble for ibuprofen."

"With the dose you just knocked back, they might make an exception. That's a pretty hefty handful of pills."

"Pretty hefty headache."

For a second, Raylan was surprised. That was awful blunt. None of that "it's nothing" or "mind your own damn business." But then, he guessed that was Tim for you: no sugar-coating. He didn't whine like a bitch, either; he told you what was what, and that was that.

Raylan had always liked that about the guy.

He relaxed a little. It wasn't that he'd pegged Tim for the pill-popping junky type, but given all the shit he'd grown up around, there was a part of Raylan that always had to wonder. But there wasn't a soul going to get a buzz from ibuprofen, and Raylan could breathe easier knowing his partner hadn't taken up any…bad habits.

"You tried eating something?" Raylan said as he started in on his locker. He was really gonna have to clean it one of these days. Him or the CDC – he'd see which one got forced into it first. "Cup of coffee, even? Helps sometimes."

"I'm fine," Tim said.

There it was. Only, with Tim, it wasn't so much bravado like Raylan was expecting as a little bit of resignation. Like the sigh of a dog knowing he wasn't gonna get any table scraps so why even bother asking.

Glancing back, though, Raylan decided that the other deputy sure didn't _look_ fine. His normally-neat hair was all tousled and sticking up in places like he'd been running his hands through it – a habit of Tim's, he'd noticed. His eyes had dark rings around them like someone'd punched him a couple times and left him with shiners for his trouble. They made him look even more skeletal than the scrawny guy normally did, especially against his sheet-pale skin.

But then, Tim wasn't an idiot, and he was a full-grown man. An Army-fucking-Ranger. If he couldn't look after himself, what hope did the average folk like Raylan have?

"Alright," Raylan said finally. He'd finished getting what he needed out of his locker and closed the door with a sharp slam.

Tim winced.

"Shit," Raylan said. "Sorry." He made sure to be a lot quieter putting the lock back in place and opening the door to the office. "Guess I'll see you 'round."

He didn't quite catch Tim's answer as the door closed behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

Raylan didn't really think much of it. Not that night, not all Saturday and Sunday – though, to be fair, it was a little hard to think of much of anything when you were passed out, drunk, or some combination of the two – and hell, not even that morning.

It wasn't until after lunch had come and gone that he became acutely aware of something missing in their little bullpen.

"Hey, Rachel, you seen Tim around today?"

Rachel glanced up from the stack of paperwork she'd been working on for the better part of the morning. Raylan had a similar stack sitting pretty in front of him, a little heavier on the "to-do" than the "done." That was a slow day in the office for you – shit tons of paperwork and not much else.

"Not that I remember," she said, before dropping her eyes back to the mess of lines and letters and carpel tunnel in the making. Apparently, she had more important things to do than a game of "Where's Waldo," U.S. Marshal style. Head still down and eyes still on her papers, she did throw him one last bone. "He's might've called in sick. You should check with Art."

Now, Raylan never claimed to be the brightest bulb in the box – not the dimmest one, either, and he was probably one of the brighter ones from his home carton – but he actually _had_ thought of that. Problem being, Art had been out of the office for the last couple hours meeting with some Feds.

More power to him.

"Check with me about what?"

Raylan spun in his chair to see Art passing in front of the bullpen, his jacket slung over his shoulder and, if Raylan wasn't imagining it, his buttons stretched just a _little_ tighter over his gut. Must've been a good lunch, he reckoned. He hoped the Feds were buying.

"Tim," Raylan said, before realizing he probably needed to fill that in a bit. "I haven't seen him around. He call in sick or something?"

"Well, Raylan, I don't know. Let me just check my roll book." He started to reach into his pocket, but then slapped his thighs. "Aw, shucks, I forgot to take attendance today."

"Could do without the sarcasm, Art." Raylan didn't know why, but he was feeling awful tense all of the sudden. Something about this just wasn't sitting right with him, and though he couldn't put his finger on it, he knew it had something to do with that empty desk a few feet away.

Art crossed his arms over his chest, one gray brow arched high. "There something on your mind?"

"Just wondering's all," Raylan said. "I'm guessing that's a no on the call in?" Even as he spoke, that feeling in his gut got stronger, like a knot pulling tighter and tighter.

"If he called, I haven't heard about it."

Which meant he hadn't called, because as much as he liked to play dumb, Art knew everything that went on in that office.

So, Tim hadn't shown up, and he hadn't called in. The first bit alone would've been enough to stand out – Tim didn't skip out at work, especially not without good reason – and the last bit definitely didn't sit well with Raylan. Color him paranoid, but he had a funny feeling saying something was _wrong_, and he didn't make a habit of ignoring his instincts.

Before Raylan could consciously make the decision to do it, he was standing and grabbing his coat off the back of his chair.

"Should I ask where you're going at—" he checked his watch, "—two in the afternoon, or is this just one of those things where you go off and do your own thing, to hell with what I think anyway?"

Raylan ticked a finger at the last one. "Let's go with that," he said, and dropping his hat on his head, he headed for the door. He'd be back in a few, he told himself – no need to lock up his desk or anything. He just needed to check on something first.

Or, more appropriately, some_one_.


	3. Chapter 3

Raylan looked down at his phone and then up at the house in front of him. Judging by the black SUV parked in the short driveway ahead of him, Raylan was pretty sure this was the right place. The address on the rusty mailbox matched the address he'd found in the directory at the office.

See, he'd realized before he'd left the elevator at the Marshal building that he actually didn't know where he was going. It'd struck him as odd, too. He knew Rachel's place; he'd been there for a couple cookouts and birthdays and such. He knew where Art lived from a good handful of football games and barbeques and all that other after-hours shit that people did.

It wasn't like he didn't see Tim outside of work, either. Tim was usually at the office get-togethers, and more than a few times had found the two of them getting to know each other in a biblical sense after-hours – a lot more lately, now that he thought about it. Just last week, they'd ended up back at Raylan's after a couple of bourbons and beers, and before then, it'd been the old motel, in the back of Raylan's car…hell, they'd even christened the Marshall station locker rooms once or twice.

It had just never been at Tim's.

But he'd found it. It had taken half a tank of gas and more wrong turns than he could count, but he was there, sitting in the driveway.

He hadn't really known what to expect on the drive, but looking at the place, it looked just about like Tim's style. Not too big, not too small, it was a nice one-story brick-and-panels number with a porch and a decent sized yard that was admirably well-kept. He wouldn't have pegged Tim as the yard work kind of fella, but then, Tim liked things around him to look nice. His shiny black SUV was proof of that.

For a moment, he considered not going in. Tim might've had a reason for not inviting people. Maybe he was a private kind of guy – didn't like people in his space.

But no. He'd come here for a reason. That feeling in his gut was still there, and he reckoned there had to be a reason for it.

Besides, he hadn't come all the way here just to turn around. He'd come here to make sure there wasn't something going on with Tim, and he was going to do it.

Getting out of his car, Raylan made his way to the front door. There wasn't a doorbell, so he went for knocking.

When the knocking didn't get a response, he tried calling for the other man. "Tim," he said. "Tim, it's Raylan. I know you're here; I can see your TV on."

Tim still didn't answer the door, though, and Raylan was starting to get uneasy. It wasn't like the guy couldn't hear him – he was being loud enough, and Tim had a sharp pair of ears on him.

He should've heard him.

He should've answered the damn door.

So why the hell hadn't he?

"Tim! Tim, you got a second to answer me before I let myself in." He wasn't bluffing, either. Generally, Raylan didn't like walking into a house uninvited, but desperate times and all that. The trick was figuring out how to do it.

He checked the usual hidey holes where people kept their keys, though he wasn't real optimistic. Something told him Tim wouldn't keep _anything_ in the usual places. Trying to pilfer paper clips from his desk had shown Raylan that plenty of times over.

Not that he made a habit of stealing Tim's office supplies.

Course, practice made perfect, and Raylan had gotten pretty good at figuring out how Tim's head worked. At least, he'd gotten as good as anyone could; Tim had a way of thinking that Raylan was starting to believe was impossible for anyone to get their head around one hundred percent.

That wasn't a criticism, though. He actually kind of liked that about him.

"I'll be damned," he said as his fingers found cool metal. He'd squatted down to look _under_ the doorframe – because sticking it on the top would've been a little too run-of-the-mill for his favorite sniper – and found the key jammed inside a little crack in the wood. It took some wiggling to get it out, but Raylan managed and stood, triumphant, to unlock the door.

The click of the lock felt like an earthquake in his hand, and Raylan pushed the door open to step inside.

The first thing he noticed was the smell. It was subtle, earthy, with just the faintest hint of metal and gun oil – a smell so uniquely Tim that Raylan could almost _see_ the other man in the room with him.

Only, he wasn't. There in the room, that was. The door opened into a living room, and there was a TV on and a mass of blankets on a worn leather couch that suggested someone might've been there not long ago, but no actual body to prove it.

There was some stuff, though, that told Raylan a bit. A trash can, brimming with balled-up tissues, a box of Kleenexes, a half-empty glass of water, and a handful of pill bottles on the corner of the table for everything from cold and sinus to nausea medicine.

So, he was sick. Real sick, from the looks of things.

"Well, shit," Raylan said, and he started towards the hall. "Tim? Tim, you okay? Where are you?"

No response.

Raylan glanced one way down the hall into what looked like a kitchen. Didn't look like anyone was there, so he decided the other way was his best bet. He figured the bedroom was probably down at the end of the hall, and that maybe Tim was in there sawing logs, too drugged up to hear him come in.

He went to investigate, only he didn't quite make it to the end of the hall like he'd been planning. He stopped about halfway down; there was an open door to his left, and over the dull murmur of the television in the living room, he could hear soft sounds like creaking linoleum and what sounded an awful lot like retching.

Gut reaction – maybe not the best choice of words, in hindsight – had Raylan reaching for the door with every intention of walking on in, but at the last second, he thought better of it. No telling what kind of state Tim was in, decent or otherwise, and he was of the opinion that what a man did in his bathroom was best left between him and God, unless the situation said otherwise.

So, instead, he leaned up against the wall and gave the door a soft knock. "You okay in there?" he called. He did the best to breathe through his nose as he did; even standing outside the door, the smell was enough to drop the flies off a pig's ass.

Alright, maybe that was a little harsh. Still, he wouldn't be taking any deep breaths anytime soon if he could help it.

His question was met with a few more gags that, for all Raylan had seen and heard, were still enough to curl his stomach a little bit, before the flush of a toilet signaled what Raylan hoped was a truce between Tim and his sour stomach.

Sure enough, a few seconds later, he got a real response. "Raylan?" It was definitely Tim's voice, but damned if it didn't sound terrible. Shaky, hoarse, strained…shit awful, and miserable to boot.

"Yeah, Tim, it's me." His own voice came out sounding a little like a sigh, although he couldn't say for the life of him why. Maybe he was frustrated with Tim for lettin' it get this bad – because even without seeing the guy, all the signs pointed to Tim being in a pretty bad way.

Or maybe he was frustrated with himself, for just about the same reason. He'd known Tim was in a bad way when he'd seen him Friday, and it'd taken him until, what, three in the afternoon the next Monday to do something about it?

Or hell, maybe he was just worried. See, as hard-pressed as he was to admit it – to himself, much less to Tim – Tim was more than just a good go 'round to pass the night. He was more than just a warm body to fill the bed empty space in the bed (or shower, or counter, or back seat). Raylan was…well, he was quite _fond_ of him. The thought of him being sick or hurt or anything other than his usual odd-but-charming self just didn't sit right.

"So," he began, his eyes fixed pointedly on the kitchen down the hall instead of through the crack in the door, "you didn't answer my question."

He heard a sniff behind the door, followed by a thick, wet cough that didn't sound altogether healthy and lasted entirely too long. It was a good few seconds before Tim was even able to manage a clipped, "what?"

Raylan frowned deeper. Either Tim's brain wasn't firing on all eight cylinders, or those cold meds sitting on the table were gumming up the works a lot worse than Raylan figured they would.

"I asked if you were okay." Though the asking seemed a bit moot, the more time Raylan hung around.

His suspicions were all but confirmed when Tim let out a choked little chuckle that could've just as easily been a gag. "Peachy." The word ended in a sneeze, that somehow managed to be loud as a gunshot and still kind of pitiful at the same time. The groan that followed was even worse.

"Alright, that's it." A man's business in the bathroom was his business, sure, but Tim sounded like he had one foot in the grave in there, and that made it Raylan's business, too. His announcement of, "I hope you're decent in there," was all the warning he gave before pushing the door open.

It was the smell that hit him first. What had been bad out in the hall was worse in the cramped little bathroom, and Raylan's first order of business was to flip the fan on. It smelled like sweat and vomit in there, and Raylan figured the first step to helping Tim out didn't involve him dropping next to the pot and throwing up with him.

Fortunately – or, perhaps unfortunately, depending on whose perspective one was going by – the smell wasn't his biggest problem for long. Soon as Raylan laid eyes on the man he'd been looking for, he had worse things than the smell to trouble him.

"Jesus Christ, Tim," he breathed, albeit not too deeply. "What the hell're you doing?"

Tim, for his part, looked about as happy to see Raylan as Raylan was to see him. The poor guy looked like hell warmed over, sitting there in his too-big flannel shirt, worn-out undershirt, and jeans. His cheeks were flushed, but his skin was sheet pale and slicked with a thin sheen of sweat that didn't quite seem to go with the shivers Raylan could see even from where he was standing. Hair mussed up and one side of his shirt hanging off his lithe shoulders, he was a pitiful little picture, especially hugging the toilet like he was.

It was his eyes, though, that really gave him away. Bloodshot, sunken, and fever-bright, they were the eyes of someone that hadn't had a good night's sleep in days and seemed to know relief wasn't close in coming.

His jaw worked visibly beneath a shadow of stubble as he regarded Raylan with his downright pitiful-looking baby blues. "What's it look like," he grumbled.

"Well…" Raylan sighed, taking a few steps in and kneeling down next to Tim on the linoleum. "I'm no doctor, but in my humble opinion, it _looks_ like you're having a pretty shitty day."

That actually earned a bit of a smile from Tim, weak as it was. "That's why—" His reply was interrupted by a harsh, wracking cough that seemed to rattle in his chest and shake the rest of him like a penny on an old washing machine. He didn't cover his mouth so much as turn his whole head towards the toilet bowl to cough, and when it ended in a gag, Raylan figured he had a pretty good idea why.

Mercifully, for both their sakes, nothing came up. Still, Raylan decided that'd be as good a time as any to grab a rag from the stack of towels on the shelf over the toilet and wet it with cool water. By the time he knelt back down, Tim was spitting something into the toilet and wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

That, Raylan decided, would be the next order of business: getting Tim into some clean, dry, not-sweat-slash-spit-slash-assorted other bodily fluids-covered clothes.

In the meantime, Raylan folded up the damn rag and laid it across the back of Tim's neck. "Easy," he said when the younger man flinched, "it's just a washcloth."

It was kind of hard to place the look in Tim's watery eyes at that, but Raylan figured it fell somewhere between confused, amused, and exasperated.

"Raylan, what're you doing here?" he said in a voice so bone dry and dead tired Raylan nearly felt ten pounds heavier just hearing it.

All the same, he donned a cheeky smile and moved the cool cloth from Tim's neck to the side of his face. "What's it look like?"

"What? You gonna nurse me back to health?" Tim shot back. Granted, it lost a lot of its bite when a sniffle set off a sneeze that had Tim doubling back over the toilet dry-retching. His whole body seized up with the force of it, and before Raylan knew what he was doing, he was rubbing the smaller man's back through his sweat-dampened shirts.

"That's what it looks like," Raylan told him. He had half a mind to add that he didn't see anyone else lining up for the job, but for so many reasons, he didn't. For one, it seemed like kind of a low blow for someone a heave short of throwing up a kidney.

But mostly, it just wasn't true. He wasn't there because he had to be; he was there because Tim was sick, and damn it, if he couldn't fix it – like he'd said, he wasn't a doctor – then damn it, he was at least going to do what he could for him. Even if that was just keeping him close to comfortable and keeping him from drowning in a puddle of his own vomit.

As Tim started to get his insides back in order, Raylan let his hand go from his back to his forehead. The heat he felt there made him frown. "You're burnin' up."

Tim, bless his heart, actually leaned into Raylan's hand, a hint of a smile on his ashen face. "Never seemed t' mind b'fore," he mumbled weakly.

"You're a riot."

Tim made a soft noise that sounded like 'mhh hmm' in the back of his throat and let his eyes slide closed. Poor guy was wiped clean out; had to be.

Unfortunately, "Sorry, sunshine, but you can't sleep in here."

It was hard to tell if Tim just couldn't be assed enough to open his eyes all the way, or if he was trying to glare. "Camp's made," was his grumbled reply, and he lifted his hand from where it rested on the seat of the toilet to wave vaguely to the pile of blankets beside him. He had himself a regular little pallet made from the looks of it.

Which raised the troubling question of just how long Tim had been in here doing the Hoakey Croakey.

"So's the couch," was Raylan's response. "How long's it been since anything came up?"

Tim's brows furrowed. "What?" He really was awfully sluggish. That made Raylan nervous.

"Never mind," he said. From the looks of Tim and from what he'd seen, the guy couldn't have had much to throw up anyway. There was a trashcan in the living room if worst came to worst, but a cold linoleum floor was no place for a sick person. "You think you can stand?"

"I ain't dyin', Raylan."

Could've fooled him, Raylan thought, but he kept that to himself. Instead, he took the washcloth from Tim's neck and put it up on the sink before standing himself and offering Tim a hand up.

Mercifully, Tim took it without protest and let Raylan haul him up onto his feet. He got the impression he tried to help as much as he could, which, given how little that ended up being, really only worried him more. He tottered on his feet once he finally managed to get on them, but after a second, he seemed steady.

More or less.

"Think you can stay up long enough to take a shower without drowning or something?" was Raylan's next question. Because as fond as he was of Tim, days of sickness and general lack of upkeep had left him a little ripe. He figured washing and some clean clothes might even do him some good.

Tim actually had the gusto to roll his eyes. "Seriously, Ray, I ain't—"

"Dying. I know," Raylan said. "And I'd kind of like to keep it that way, if you don't mind. So, I repeat: can you stand enough to take a shower, or am I gonna hear a thud soon as I close this door and come in to find you cracked your head open or some shit?"

"I reckon I can manage," Tim muttered dryly.

Raylan wasn't exactly convinced, but he also knew better than to try to coddle his…whatever Tim was to him – because he was starting to get the feeling sometimes-lover, or even lover period was…inadequate. If Tim could handle a shower, he could reevaluate and they'd go from there.

"Alright," he said finally. "I'll leave you to it, then. Holler if you need me."

"Yes, dear."

Raylan decided he would take the sass as a good sign. With a tip of his head, he ducked out of the bathroom and pulled the door to behind him. "Better not lock this," he called through it.

"Figured I'd just jump out the window."

Somehow, Raylan doubted he'd make it very far. "You do that," he said. In the meantime, he had a phone call to make.


	4. Chapter 4

"Now how on earth am I supposed to know what color his spit is?" Raylan said. The hand that wasn't holding the phone to his ear came up to pinch the bridge of his nose as he tried, mostly in vain, to comprehend the nurse on the other end of the line. "Well, yeah, considering I found him hugging the commode like it was the last life raft on the Titanic, I'd say—" He caught himself. Snapping at the person advising you on a loved one's medical condition probably wasn't a wise course of action. "_Yes_, he is nauseous." He paused for the woman on the other end of the line to speak a little more. "List the symp—again? You want me to list them again." Of course she did. He sighed. "Nausea, fever, chills, sneezing, sounds like he's coughing up a mud bog…no…no, I don't know how long he's been like this…a guess? I don't know. Two, maybe three days? Maybe more?"

Probably more, he thought to himself. Tim was stubborn as they came, and now that Raylan thought about it, he'd had a tissue box sitting out on his desk the better part of the week.

"Alright…just bring him through the emergency room? Yes ma'am…appreciate it." He nodded, a thin smile on his face. Both were completely lost on the nurse, it being a phone call and all, but it was just reflex. "Well, I will certainly tell him you said so…yes ma'am. Thank you for all the help. Goodbye."

He couldn't help letting out a breath of relief as he ended the call and shoved his phone in his pocket, only to hold it in again when he heard a thud from the bathroom.

"You gotta be shitting me," he hissed, running down the short hall to the bathroom and throwing open the door. When he got his bearings, though, he was greeted not with the sight of Tim with his head cracked open or drowning in the tub, but with him back on his knees, praying to the porcelain god.

The worried scowl became a sympathetic frown, and Raylan didn't hesitate to crouch down next to him and put a hand on his back, his thumb resting just beneath a circle of raised pink skin at the small of Tim's back. His bare skin was really too warm against Raylan's palm, but Raylan told himself that some of it might be from the hot shower he'd just taken.

"Alright," he said in what he hoped was a soothing voice. "You're alright. Just try to catch your breath." He knew it was easier said than done, but he still had to say it. He'd done the whole song and dance with food poisoning back when he'd first moved to Florida, throwing up 'till there was nothing left and still heaving like there was, and he wouldn't wish it on anyone. Especially not Tim. He could even feel the sympathy tickle in the back of his throat; he swallowed deeply and grit his teeth, just to be safe.

"Shit," Tim choked out when he was finally able. He had his forehead resting on his arm, barred across the toilet bowl, which told Raylan he wasn't quite sure there wasn't gonna be a round two. The occasional sort of hiccup-like spasm he gave only served to reinforce the theory.

Raylan gave Tim's shoulder a reassuring squeeze. If there had been any doubt in his mind before about the next step of his plan, there definitely wasn't now. "Take your time, darlin'," he said. He wasn't generally one for pet names, but if ever there was a time for them, this seemed like it might be one of them.

If Tim noticed, he didn't seem to mind. He was a little too busy fishing around the counter for something, and Raylan helpfully reached up and plucked a couple tissues out of the box for him. The rest, he figured, Tim could handle for himself, so he got up and grabbed the shirt he'd grabbed for Tim off the counter. He'd managed to get the jeans on for himself – he'd briefly considered the sweatpants that looked like remnants of Tim's army days, but since Tim had been wearing jeans when he'd come in, he figured jeans were his bottoms of choice – but it seemed he hadn't quite made it to the shirt.

When the toilet flushed, Raylan was waiting with a cup of water in one hand and the shirt in the other. Tim took the former first, and Raylan's brows furrowed when he saw his normally-steady hands shaking.

"Small sips," he remembered to say, if only because it seemed like the thing people said in situations like this. To be honest, he wasn't really good with this sort of thing.

Tim seemed to do as he was told, and took a couple sips of water – he spit a few of them out, which Raylan could understand – before sitting the rest up on the counter. He reached for his shirt, then, and it didn't escape Raylan's notice that he was slow pulling it on.

"Sore?"

"You try sleeping on a bathroom floor," Tim muttered. Raylan was starting to think there was a little more to the way he was talking. He always talked through his teeth a bit, mumbled a little, but the clench of his jaw said maybe there was an ulterior motive.

And while they were on the subject, "You shaved." He tried not to sound as incredulous as he felt. He could barely make it five minutes without singing his lunch and the guy had shaved? Never mind he'd had a sharp blade inches from just jugular with his hand shaking like a dog shitting hammer handles.

Tim rubbed his cheek. "Feels better."

"Well then, I suppose that's all that really matters." Actually, Raylan found it really was. Looking at Tim, still shivering in his t-shirt, pale as a ghost and sick as sin, Raylan had this desperate sort of pull in his chest, this _need_ to make it better, however he could.

A cough startled Raylan out of his thoughts, and for a second, he was worried Tim would be doubling over the toilet again. Thankfully, that didn't happen, but it wasn't as great a comfort as Raylan would've liked. He'd caught a glimpse of the tissue Tim had coughed into – not on purpose, mind; _really_ not on purpose – seen the flash of yellow-brown against the white, and felt his pulse ratchet up a few beats.

As soon as it looked like Tim was getting his breath back, Raylan left the room. He went to the living room, grabbed the first couple plastic bags he could find and lined the bottoms with paper towels, then he walked over to the coat rack to grab Tim's black jacket.

"Raylan?"

Raylan turned to see Tim standing in the doorway. Well, leaning more like. Heavily, such that Raylan got the impression he'd barely made it that far, and it was a wonder he was still standing.

As if to prove Raylan's theory, he pushed off the doorway and made it no more than a step or two before he stumbled. He didn't fall on his face or anything, mind; Tim was sick, but if he was that sick, Raylan would've already called the damn ambulance.

All the same….

"Damnit, Tim," he hissed, and short of sprinting, he got over to him as quick as he could. "Would you just sit down before you fall down?" Not that he was giving him much of a choice. He'd no sooner spoken than he was pushing Tim back towards the sofa to sit his ass down. "Now just stay there, alright?" And then he turned, patting his pockets to make sure he had everything he needed. Phone, wallet, keys – check.

"You got somewhere you need to be?" Tim said. He was squinting a little bit, with a look that seemed to be trying to say, 'What the hell are you doing' but ended up more along the lines of, 'please stop standing in front of that bright ass window.'

"What?"

"Runnin' around like a chicken with your head cut off." Tim gestured vaguely, then sunk back into the couch a little more as if that one gesture had spent what few reserves he had. "Figured you had somewhere to be." He punctuated the observation with a weak cough that wasn't enough to open his mouth, but was plenty to make his chest jump. The sniffles that followed were even more pitiful.

Raylan added 'tissues' to the list of things he needed to grab, and he headed back into the bathroom. "I ain't got nowhere to be myself," he called, loud enough that he thought Tim could hear him, but not so loud he thought it'd hurt the headache Tim seemed to be fighting with. And losing, it would appear. "As it happens, it's you that's due someplace."

Tim's brows furrowed in confusion.

No, Raylan thought, definitely not all eight cylinders. And as cute a look as that was, his eyebrows knotted and his lips pouted pensively, Raylan didn't much care to drag this out. "I'm taking you to the hospital."

"You wanna run that by me again?"

"I said, 'I'm—'"

"I heard what you said, Raylan."

"Then why did you ask me to run it by you again?" Raylan retorted. "You know what, never mind. I'll just go get your shoes." He hadn't seen them by the door, but he figured they had to be there somewhere.

As he headed out of the room, though, Tim caught him by the sleeve of his shirt. "Raylan, I'm fine."

Easy as it would have been to break out of Tim's grasp – he looked like he could maybe arm wrestle a kitten and come out on top, and even then, Raylan would hedge his bets – Raylan turned, his lips pulling into a stern frown. "No," he said. "No, Tim, you're not fine. And frankly, the fact that you're telling me you are is scary."

"Scary?"

"Or insulting. Depends on whether you're lyin' to me or not." He took a seat on the coffee table in front of the younger man, fixing him with a stern look. "Listen, here's how it's gonna go: you're gonna sit here and wait while I finish getting you're shit together, then we're gonna go to the hospital. You're gonna get looked at by someone that knows what they're doing, then we're gonna come back here, and I'm gonna look after you until you kick whatever bug or shit this is." He leaned forward. "And before it's all said and done, you're gonna promise me you're _never _gonna let it get this bad again without telling me, 'cause if do you, so help me God, Tim, a cough is gonna be the least of your troubles. You understand?"

Tim sniffed in response, coughing a few times. His hands twisted in the tissues he was holding, and damned if they weren't still shaking.

Raylan nearly caved just seeing that. It was just so foreign, seeing Tim's hands shake. He had the steadiest hands Raylan had ever seen, and yet he could barely even seem to keep his grip on tissues, for God's sake.

He nearly caved, but he didn't. He did, however, soften his approach just a little. The guy was miserable enough without Raylan hauling him over the coals.

Sighing, he bumped Tim's knee with his. Sort of an olive branch, as it were. "Tim, I need you to talk to me."

"I ain't going to the hospital," Tim said so quietly, Raylan almost didn't hear him.

Raylan raised an eyebrow. "Pardon?"

"I ain't going to the hospital," Tim repeated, a little stronger this time.

"See, that's what I thought you said, but I just wanted to make sure." Raylan could feel his patience wearing thin; what little he ever had to begin with was on its last legs, and he wasn't expecting it to last much longer. "Can I ask you _why_?"

"Why?" Tim sniffed again, rubbing at his already red nose with the tissues he'd just been abusing. "'Cause it's a damn cold, Raylan, that's why. Nothing they can do for a cold."

"Tim, I may not have an M and a D after my name, but I ain't a fool. This," he gestured at Tim, "ain't a cold."

"I'm fine."

Another nerve frayed. "For the sake of my blood pressure," he said, "wipe that word from your vocabulary. Or, at the very least, learn what it really means, because you and the _whole rest of the world_ seem to have different opinions on the matter."

"Damnit, Raylan."

"Don't 'Damnit, Raylan,' me, Tim," he snapped. Angrily, he rose to his feet, running a hand through his hair and doing a short lap around the room before he was confident enough he wasn't gonna scream at Tim to speak again. "Why are you being so stubborn? It's a hospital, not a shootout." He snorted. "'Course not. I'd have to tie you down just to keep you out of a shootout. So what is it, then? Got some fear of needles I don't know about? Or is this some sort of PTSD shit that—" he stopped short.

Tim was staring at his knees wide, glassy eyes and lips pressed into a thin line. His hands had abandoned their torture of the tissue to fist in the fabric of his jeans, and the only signs of movement in him were the shivers and the occasional muted cough.

And suddenly, like a ton of bricks, it hit him.

"Shit." Raylan covered his face with his hands, a surge of guilt and shame welling in his chest so strong that it very nearly took his legs out from under him. As it was, he walked slowly back over to the table and sunk down onto it, his elbows going to his knees and his hands sliding up over his face.

He let out a deep breath and forced himself to sit up, running his hands through his hair as he did. "That's what it is, isn't it?" he said, his voice carefully even. All of the earlier frustration was gone, and in its wake, Raylan just felt like shit.

Tim just nodded jerkily. His face had paled even more, until Raylan was afraid he was gonna pass out where he sat.

Raylan swallowed thickly. "Those scars, then…." The one on his back, with a matching one just down and to the left of his navel…the one on his chest, in the center of that tattoo of his.

"Woke up in a hospital," Tim said. "Avoided 'em since." His voice was strained, reedy; Raylan found himself subconsciously toeing the trashcan closer. Frankly, the guy looked like he was going to hurl…again. And, Raylan realized guiltily, it would be his fault for getting him stirred up like this.

Part of Raylan said he should stay back, give Tim his space. He'd fucked up enough, thank you very much; time to get out before he did more damage. But the other part of him thought better of it. Tim looked damn near lost.

So, Raylan pushed himself up off the table, moved the blanket beside Tim, and sat down in its place. Carefully – he didn't want to jar Tim, lest he and his stomach find themselves at odds again – he put an arm around him and pulled him close. Tim tensed, but Raylan just pressed his lips to the top of his head. "I'm an asshole," he said.

Tim gave a one-sided shrug. "Didn't know," he mumbled.

"Doesn't mean I'm not an asshole. And it doesn't mean I'm not sorry." Christ, but he was. "But…it also doesn't mean I'm gonna let you hang out here and get worse."

It was probably a sure sign of just how shit he felt that Tim didn't even have the gusto to try and get loose. He hardly even stiffened. "Raylan…." That was all the protest he seemed to be able to muster. The poor guy was all used up, and Raylan could feel his chest working for every breath. He didn't think he was in any immediate danger, but it sure as hell didn't sound healthy.

It only served to strengthen Raylan's resolve. "Sorry, darlin', but this is non-negotiable." He frowned apologetically even though he knew Tim couldn't see it, and pressed another kiss to his head before extracting himself from the couch. "You ready to go?"

But Tim shook his head, his jaw clenched tight.

Raylan sighed. "Humor me, would you? The sooner you go, the sooner you—" The rest of Raylan's antiquated attempt at coaxing the sniper up was lost as Tim doubled over the trashcan Raylan had put in front of him just a minute or two before. Unfortunately, this heave wasn't quite as dry as the ones Raylan had been graced with witnessing so far, and it was all he could do not to grimace.

He'd meant it: he wasn't ready to go.

For the third time that day, Raylan found himself rubbing Tim's back as his innards revolted and wishing like hell he could do to fix it. Something that _didn't_ involve Tim paying a visit to his very own institutional boogeyman.

Of course he was afraid of hospitals, though, Raylan thought. After all, what scarring emotional trauma do you get for an ex-Army Ranger Sniper who has everything?


End file.
